


What Are You Fighting For

by Delaford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, kind of, part one of maybe more parts ... ?, prayer fic, well yeah it is actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delaford/pseuds/Delaford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's prayers to Castiel are always distracting, especially when Cas is mid-battle.  But what does this mean for Cas?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are You Fighting For

**Author's Note:**

> This probably takes place somewhere around season 5. I just wanted to read something about Dean's prayers from Cas' pov in a more canon-y light, rather than with all the dirty dirty attached with the usual prayer fics. Not that there's anything wrong with those, cuz dayum they be hot! 
> 
> So yeah, please enjoy! There's a part two swirling around in my head that gets quite a bit dirtier, but that's more wing!kink than prayer!kink and also far from being written down since I'm mostly back on a Sherlock kick right now, which bodes well for anyone waiting for part two of Jumpers and Jam ... ;) *hint hint*

Light.  Everywhere.  Brighter than fresh snow on a clear day.  Colors innumerous hidden between each particle, yet bursting outwards in an array so vast and wide its boundaries could never be determined.    
  
The scent of water and air; taste of ice flakes and whipping wind.    
  
This is their home.  Their battlefield.    
  
Castiel flies through and over, around and out, his very form blending with the light, waves of color dance over him, under him.  His brothers and sisters, light and color themselves, spin around him as the fight rages on.    
  
Three have fallen.  Briel, Castiel was close to, and feels it when his grace dispels, when the ghost of Briel’s consciousness fades into the light, dissipating into the very colors they were born from.  The other two, Zuriel and Eloa, he only knew in passing, being much younger than Briel or himself, but bows his proverbial head in respect, and flies on.  One learns quickly that any amount of time spent grieving is enough time to be killed.    
  
Castiel plummets down through flashing layers of battle, searching for a blind spot.  The trouble is though, when you’re a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent, there isn’t much in the way of blind spots.    
  
That’s when he feels it.    
  
It’s intuitive, really.  He always senses it, feels it waft and curl in his core, before the imploration strokes along the part of him made receptive to prayers, and he’s not sure what that means.    
  
Knowing what a distraction this usually is for him, Castiel drops lower, spreading his form out to blend in more thoroughly with the atmosphere.  Keeping one eye on the battle above him, he waits.    
  
_Cas …_  
  
Castiel’s essence glows brighter just for a moment before he dampens it back down.  No need to place himself in any more danger than he already is, lying dormant on a translucent nebulous of color.  Regardless, a still mildly unfamiliar warmth spreads through him.  Unfamiliar in that Castiel is unsure why he feels this every time Dean prays to him.    
  
Perhaps it has something to do with the way he feels Dean’s thoughts before he hears them?  Feels Dean’s intent before perhaps even Dean himself is aware his subconscious has made a decision, reached out?  Castiel doesn’t know.  What he does know is that whatever the reason, he likes it.    
  
_Hey Big Bird, you hearing me?_   
  
Castiel can hear the smile in Dean’s thoughts, and if that makes him smile a little, too, his grace shimmering around the edges, who would blame him?    
  
A rogue streak of light hurtles past Castiel’s nebula and he knows he was idle for too long.  His essence contracting, Castiel surges upwards, rejoining the fray, distraction be damned.  He tries to shut his mind to Dean, focusing all other senses on the chaos around him while still keeping a tenuous grasp on the line connecting them.  Even though this bond he and Dean share has at times felt like salvation, it scares Castiel.  Times like this, for instance, when he should definitely be focused elsewhere, he finds his mind lingering on the smell of leather and pie.  Castiel knows to love humans as God commanded, but to place one above Heaven?    
  
The shot that fell near him had been meant for Gedael, an older sister of Castiel’s.  He speeds off towards her just in time to block another attack from Ormas, a servant of Uriel, aimed from behind.  Gedael swoops around; her grace lightly brushing Castiel’s in thanks as she repositions herself for the counterattack.  Castiel glides upwards, ready to strike, when …  
  
 _Listen, man … we haven’t seen you in awhile, so I was just …_   
  
Castiel falters.  Gedael’s consciousness briefly flickers to him before bearing down on Ormas.  Mentally shaking himself, Castiel redirects his attention to the urgent matter at hand.    
  
_Whatever dude, just, you know, be careful and … don’t be a stranger._   
  
Mustering his concentration, Castiel hones his grace into a razor’s edge and plunges it down into Ormas.  His grace bursts out in one fantastic strobe of light, scattering all its divine attributes to the ether.    
  
Heart heavy with yet another loss, Castiel says a prayer for the newest Fallen and flies on.  Suddenly he feels it again.  This time with no immediate foe to contend with, Castiel savors the warmth as he soars.    
  
_Oh and one more thing, Cas.  Sam found this abandoned library on our last hunt, and, well you know how he gets with libraries … but this one has a mess of really old books.  Like, really old.  Languages we’ve never even heard of._  
  
A loud crack sounds above Castiel, signifying another soldier has joined the fight.  Castiel turns to identify them as they gust past his ear.  He turns to see Duma glide a wide arc in the sky, momentum taking him straight for Castiel.  His heart sinks even as the familiar bond pulls warmly at his core.    
  
_It just kinda seemed like something you might get a kick out of._  
  
Duma, like many, used to be a supporter of Lucifer before he was cast out of Heaven, but later renounced his loyalty to Lucifer and proclaimed his love for God, laying himself prostrate before all the garrisons.  He was taken back, though warily by some.  Raphael had taken responsibility over most of those wayward angels, promising reconversion and acceptance.    
  
Castiel rolled his eyes inwardly as Duma converged his grace at the center of his being.    
  
Reconverted, indeed.    
  
Duma blasts a lethal arrow at Castiel, who sweeps sideways, avoiding it by a mere breath.  He rallies his own grace, preparing to attack, when the bond tugs again.    
  
_I mean, if anything, you could maybe clue us in on what any of it means._  
  
Castiel tried to shake off the hold of the bond without losing any of its warmth, unwilling to let it go even as he could hear Duma charging up another strike.    
  
The bond tugged again, laced with mild desperation this time.  Or was that … resignation … or hope?  
  
 _Anyway, we’ll be at the Travel Inn just outside Exeter, Rhode Island.  Room two-twenty-five._   
  
Filled with concern over this sudden appearance of emotion, Castiel strains his ear to catch the nuances of Dean’s tone, momentarily lost to confusion.  He hears the high whine of grace piercing the atmosphere and dips to the side.  He thinks for a second he’s safe, until he feels the sharp agony of severed grace.    
  
Duma’s arrow, although missing its fatal mark, ripped through the very edge of Castiel’s being, but it was enough.  Grace, frayed at the edges, seeped out of Castiel, like honey through a sieve.    
  
Castiel falls.  The wind soars through him and he wonders why Duma hadn’t finished him off, before noticing Duma already on the other side of the melee.    
  
Arrogance.    
  
Castiel’s world starts to darken as Earth approaches.  He could spread his wings and glide down, but that just seems like too much work.  His energy already diminishing.    
  
But there.    
  
Warmth.    
  
Dean.    
  
_Just in case you’d care to … yeah.  Ok then.  Over and out._   
  
Castiel’s world brightens by just the slightest increment and he knows.  He knows he has strength enough for this.    
  
With a great effort, Castiel unfolds his palatial wings and focuses on the words Dean had prayed only moments before …  
  
“ _Travel Inn.  Exeter, Rhode Island.  Two-twenty-five._ ”    
  
The last thing Castiel registers before losing consciousness is impact, the hard press of scratchy carpet on his cheek, and one gruff grunt of surprise. 


End file.
